


Daybreak

by waywardWarden



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Any ships that may happen will be added as they are created, F/F, F/M, Isolation, M/M, Post-Zombie Apocalypse AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-01
Updated: 2012-07-01
Packaged: 2017-11-08 23:18:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/448654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waywardWarden/pseuds/waywardWarden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been a little over four years. Four years since the outbreak; four years since the day Humans and Trolls tried to play Gog and failed; four years since you'd lost just about everything you'd known and enjoyed and held dear.</p><p>Where once people had aspirations and dreams like becoming doctors or CEOs, they now struggle to simply live. Forget thinking in terms of years or months or even weeks- people just live day to day, surviving the aftermath of the end of the world and hoping that they'll be able to see the next daybreak.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Daybreak

**Author's Note:**

> Welp, here goes.

It’s just like any other day- you wake up to the bright rays of sunshine streaming through your window with as much zeal as you always do. Which is to say, you wake up as sluggishly as a zombie.

Heh.

You swing your legs over the side of your bed with a grunt and sit up, one hand groping around for your shades while the other runs through your mop of messy blonde hair. The shades unfold with a click and you slide them on as you take a closer look at your wristwatch.

10:09. Shit. You overslept.

 You stand, and your lanky 5’9” frame blocks out just a bit of the sun coming in through your apartment window. Clothes litter your room, forming small clumps here and there on the paneled hardwood floor. You pick up various articles and throw them on as you make your way to the bathroom- shirt from here, pants from over there, a miraculously matching pair of socks (because some higher fucking power had deigned that you would never have matching socks, apparently).

The bathroom light comes on with a light buzz as you flick the light switch.  It’s not exactly the most grand thing in the city, but it suits your needs- can’t ask for much more than that. You brush your teeth- most wouldn’t see the point, but on the off chance you talked to anybody today, you were going to make damned sure you were at least presentable. You rinse out your mouth and splash some water on your face- the water’s hot but shit, you forgot to take off your shades.

You tear off a paper towel- where the hell did you find more, anyways?- and dry them as you look at yourself in the mirror.

Damn, kid, looking chill. You could be the next polar fucking icecap if you had half a mind to do it. Too bad you don’t.

Breakfast is simple- some powdered eggs, a can of beans (the closest things at hand to the stove). It’s not looking good- you need to get some more food at some point, with how stark your shelves are looking. You change out your bird’s water and food afterwards; the dishes can wait until there comes a time when you feel like doing them. He turns his head and follows your hands with a single, beady black eye.

“’Sup, Cal?” Sad to say, this bird’s been your only friendly contact in a while. It’s not that you’re bad at making friends; there’s just no one worth talking to these days.

You’d been taking a break that day- just sitting around, relaxing and cleaning up, amazingly enough- and when you’d opened the window for some fresh air, a single black crow had flown by and perched itself on your windowsill. It hadn’t pecked at you, and it didn’t make any sort of a mess; it had just sat there, watching. You went out and got a bird cage and some feed, and all the other shit a pet bird needs, and the fella’s been living with you ever since.

Cal caws, his wings flapping a bit as you try to pet him.

You check the generator- still pretty full, no need to refill it- and make sure to check the pipes that run the exhaust outside. Satisfied with how intact everything still is, you throw on a backpack with some food and water in it and leave the apartment.

You nearly trip on the way down the stairs- the elevator’s been busted forever and you were still too lazy to fix it, even after all this time. Hell, stairs are better for your health and shit anyways, right?

It’s ten floors down- not much to you, but fuck if it hadn’t been a pain in the early days when you’d first moved in. You step outside and lock up the gate- it’s be bad if anybody got in that way.

Your car is parked right there- the way the neighborhood’s gone, no one really cares anyways- and you get in. It’s a bright pink Prius with a few scratches here and there- a Prius because it saves on gas and bright pink because it’s ironic beyond all hell. Your day goes about as normally as possible- avoid the dark alleys and buildings where the locals like to congregate, handle the groceries and clothes, gas up the car. Lunch is eaten in a nice little park a few miles from your house. The place is so close to picture-perfect, all that’s missing is a few kids and their fucking kite, or some dad playing catch with his son.

That last image sticks around in your head for a bit. Yeah…it’d be pretty chill to play catch with him again, but Bro’s been gone for a few years now, and you’re making it on your own.

You start to head back to your place around 6- it’d be hell if you stayed out past 8, and you like to be safe anyways.

You park the car and as you unlock the gate, backpack full with two other filled bags besides, you take a moment to enjoy the feeling of the last few rays of the sun on your face. A breeze rolls by and you savour how quiet and tranquil everything is, how it always is before nightfall. There’s no noise, no traffic, and the street’s as empty right now as it always is. Not even the local wildlife makes anything close to a chirp or a squeak. The moment stretches into a few, then into a few minutes, before you snap out of it. Shaking your head, you step inside and deposit the bags on the concrete floor. You note a dry, black-ish stain right under your feet with a bit of disgust, but you man up quickly and start pulling the panel of corrugated sheet metal over the door. It slides into place with a rickety metallic clang- duh, it’s fucking metal, of course it’d sound metallic- and you scoop up the bags. You check to see if each door’s locked on the way up the stairwell, and as you near the top you can hear it start.

The hooting, the howling. It’s loud and it’s violent. You shake your head with a scowl. Fuckers were early tonight.

You locked your apartment door, sliding another panel of corrugated metal over it just to be sure- it WAS a bad neighborhood, after all. The place is dark until you start up the generator- Cal’s not even fazed by the noise anymore; he’s used to it after several months of living with you. You shut the door and the sound of the generator is muffled- thank god for soundproofing- and onto the shelves your groceries go. It’s getting harder and harder every day to get more; some days, it’s downright impossible and you return empty handed with nothing but a scowl on your face.

The noises get louder the darker it gets as you seal off all of the windows- no need to advertise your abode, after all. More panels of metal slide over the fragile drapes, and you decide a bit of dinner is in order. You decide to go big, heating up a frozen pizza and cracking open a few cans of beer to the tune of some of your own beats. Cal nibbles on some of the bits of meat and crumbs that you toss him as you finally do the dishes- a week’s worth of plates and bowls and cups start to stink after a while- and you shut off the generator before you retire to your room.

There’s a loaded gun on your nightstand and Bro’s katana, his last gift to you, rests against the wall right next to it.

Second to last, you correct yourself.

The noises outside get worse; you’ve been looking for more soundproofing, but the shit’s heavy and hard to find, and so your room isn't as fortified as the rest of your apartment. As you curl up, your precious shades on the nightstand next to the gun, you wonder when it’ll get better. When you’ll be able to just relax and rest and be at ease.

After a while, you start to feel your eyes close- guess they’d gotten tired of looking at the ceiling after all.

Your name is Dave Strider, you’re 24 years old, and as the clock hits 12:01 you remember that’s it’s been exactly 4 years since the virus outbreak.


End file.
